Hey Little Train
by Deanadelyon
Summary: "She looked at the outstretched hand as though she'd never seen such a thing before...Had Harry finally gone mad?" A fairly short fic depicting the very sweet dance scene in Deathly Hallows Pt.I.


Disclaimer: All recognizable characters, scenarios, and locations are property of J.K. Rowling. I have made no money from writing the following story; I have written it simply for my own enjoyment.

A/N: Dedicated to the very closest of my friends, with love.

Title from "O Children" by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds. This is one of my favorite scenes from Deathly Hallows I, and this fic has been sitting around on my computer for quite some time now, so I decided to publish it.

Also: For those of you following my other stories, "The World Begins Again" has _not_ been abandoned; and "Counting Stars" will gain two more chapters, hopefully in the relatively near future.

.~*~.

Hey Little Train

Some people fall in love with alarming ease, and fall out of it even more easily than that. Some people could meet someone, say "Hello!" and there you have it, they were smitten. The next week, they would see this same person, say "Goodbye!" and just like that, the person was gone from their lives: out of sight, out of mind.

Hermione Granger was most definitely not one of those people. For one, she was far too busy and far too smart to fall in love; also, she had far too much loyalty, too much love, too much _fire_ in her soul to fall _out_. But, the whole issue was, by all means, a closed circle: she could not fall in love, she could not fall _out_, and thus the first point really negated the second.

So, clearly, she was not by any means in_ love_ with Ron Weasley. She really, truly was not. What she _did_, was like him- a _lot_. But _love_? Maybe eventually, she reasoned; everything was possible, and so falling in love- even with Ron Weasley- was not _im_possible. But not now, not in such a crazy world as this.

She certainly liked him a great deal, though: he made her furious, he made her reckless, and beyond all he made her really, deeply happy. He made her heart beat faster and made her temper soar; she often corrected his papers and he often spilled things on hers. He made her cry quite often, but made her laugh all the time. He infuriated her, he _annoyed _the _hell_ out of her, and she...

Really, _really_ liked him. A lot.

The last few months had been cold and lonely, even when the sun shone and a warm breeze ruffled their hair. Three children, on the run, hiding from shadows even as they sought them out; perhaps they'd survive, in the end. Perhaps not.

That was what had scared him, she knew: the idea of one of them dying. It scared (_terrified_) them all, but it _panicked_ him, made him irrational...

And the _thing_ in that locket hadn't helped, that was certain.

He'd always been like that, though: well-intentioned but thoughtless in the face of fear; loyal but irrational when those he cared about were at stake. She understood.

She still hated it. She hated waking up and not seeing him, not hearing his grumbling over dinner- intended to diffuse the tension, redirect it to less dire matters than life and death- and she hated not knowing where he was just then.

A small radio sat in the corner of the tent; it was kept on at all times, monitored for news and reports regarding the missing or dead. It made the world seem real, and close.

Just now, it was quietly playing a dark, melancholy sort of Muggle song, as she sat next to it and just _listened_, lost in her thoughts and the strange sensation of really_, really_ missing someone, the way she missed Ron. She glanced up, her eyes locking on the dark-haired boy on the other side of the tent, and she frowned before looking down again. What had _he_ done to deserve this? Harry didn't hurt people; he didn't complain and didn't constantly allude to how much _better_ his life would be if he were someone else. He protected people, he carried his burdens with admirable grace, particularly for a _boy_ of just seventeen. He had good instincts and a fiery temper; he was kind and loyal and a great friend and...

He didn't _deserve _this. He was just a _child_.

They were just _children._

She didn't see him turn around and make his way towards her, didn't notice him until he was standing directly in front of her. She looked up, almost defensively, dragged from her memories by her friend, who was looking at her curiously. She frowned in confusion, and his eyes brightened slightly, his mouth curving up in a determined smile, as he held out his hand to her. She looked at the outstretched hand as though she'd never seen such a thing before. He didn't move.

Had Harry finally gone mad?

_"The world's mad_," Ron's voice echoed in her head, and she felt her heart clench involuntarily in response; automatically, she reached forward.

As Hermione placed her hand in Harry's, he pulled her to her feet, awkwardly moving her arms with a small grin... and they danced. Crazily, carefree, twirling and laughing for the first time in _far_ too long, and _God_ they were young and safe and _free_ just then! The world was okay, _they_ were okay, and the music seemed to swell around them as they _laughed_, for the first time in such a very long time, and still they were spinning and tilting and _smiling..._

And then they weren't anymore; they were standing close, and her head was on his shoulder, and his arms were around her, holding her tight as they swayed to the fading music; and they pulled back and stared at each other for a moment, watching the youthful, flaring brightness flicker and die in one another's eyes, and Hermione stepped back and went back to her perch at the other end of the tent as Harry watched her sadly.

Because they weren't free and they _weren't_ okay and they _weren't _safe. They weren't youthful and naive and carefree, crazy or lighthearted anymore. They weren't sheltered, held in the protective arms of those more powerful than they; they weren't even protected by some inherrent, youthful faith that good would conquer evil.

There wasn't time or reason to miss anybody, because either you stood together or you were on your own. And they would march on, just the two of them now, and she wouldn't miss the third- she would just forget that she'd _really really_ liked him (never never never would she forget) because feeling anything (feeling nothing) was the most dangerous thing in the whole world.

And she looked around the tent again, before she fell into a fitful approximation of sleep, and it was then that she realized that there was no army standing there for them and there was no spectacular battle field; no flags of triumph in the air, no triumphal arches of glory over the top of their momentary haven.

It was just two children standing there, alone, but they weren't children any longer.

.~*~.

A/N: I hope you enjoyed that! :) Please review (constructive or complimentary, thank you!)! Thanks for reading.


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